


keystrokes

by weefaol



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Bottom Jared, Closeted Character, Falling In Love, First Time, Flirting, Journalist Jared, M/M, Sad Ending, Top Jensen, Whistleblower Jensen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-05 03:06:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11569008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weefaol/pseuds/weefaol
Summary: Jared Padalecki is a junior reporter at theWashington Postwhen he receives an encrypted email from a high-level government contractor who wants to expose a top-secret conspiracy -- the U.S. Government is spying on American citizens. He agrees to meet up with the whistleblower in a Hong Kong hotel room.Seven days is all Jared needs to break his story. Four days less to fall in love.





	keystrokes

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by the meeting between NSA whistleblower [Edward Snowden](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_Snowden) and journalist [Glenn Greenwald](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glenn_Greenwald) in June 2013. Some phrases and terminology are lifted from Laura Poitras' incredible 2014 documentary [_Citizenfour_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E8lW4_tpzO4) and are intended as homage.
> 
> "I have no intention of hiding who I am because I know I have done nothing wrong." ~ Edward Snowden

emigrantzero@veracity:

\- - - - - - BEGIN PGP MESSAGE - - - - -

“My name is Jensen Ackles. I’m twenty-nine years old. I’m a Software Engineer from Fort Worth, Texas and former Systems Analyst for the Domestic Defence Agency.”

Pause. Deliberate.

“How far do you want me to go?”

~ ~ ~

It all started with an encrypted email.

 _Jared,_  
_At this point I can’t offer you anything other than my word. I am a high-level software engineer on contract for a government intelligence agency. I have classified information of interest to each and every citizen of this country. Information that, when brought to light, will change the world._  
_I promise I won’t be a waste of your time._  
_EZ_

Those days, Jared Padalecki was an up-and-comer. Most promising junior reporter at the _Washington Post_. Reporter, not journalist. He hated journalists. Hated their flowery prose and the way they spun stories to tug at heartstrings. Reporters, on the other hand, stuck to the facts. They were hard-nosed, paper pushers. Jared was a _reporter_. And a damn good one too.

He had his nose to the grindstone on some mid-level national security case — rogue intelligence agents, shady campaign contributions, anti-terrorism legislation — when his email _pinged_. The first anonymous ask from codename _EZ._

_I care about the security of citizens’ communications. Do you?_

Jared stares at the ten words. Fifty letters. Sixty-five keystrokes. Pen-lolling at the side of his mouth, he leans forward and taps at his keyboard.

_Yes._

Hits enter to send.

Seventy keystrokes.

This was the first time they touched.

~ ~ ~

Jared doesn’t know anything about public keys or cryptography. But his source needs protecting. _EZ_ insists on this.

 _Encryption matters_ , he writes. _Detection is inevitable. But encryption buys us time_.

So Jared pays. He learns about PKIs and VPNs, Tor clients and digital signatures. Starts carving out secure tunnels. Little places to hide. It’s a special language between them. Hex values and squiggly brackets and 128-bits that turn garbles into poems. Pretty little _who are yous_ and _is it safes_ and _tell me mores_.

Jared’s fingertips hover, tingling, over keys. He’s always waiting for the next coded snippet. It’s the thrill of the chase, he tells himself. The seductive pull of a good story. Of solving a cipher. He won’t admit the warm tug at his bellybutton whenever his email pings. At the fact that _Emigrant Zero_ gives to him so willingly. Hands him everything he needs on air gapped machines. Spoon-feeds him algorithm appetizers.

Jared’s getting hungrier.

~ ~ ~

Jared’s on a flight to Hong Kong. He’s fidgety, restless. No Internet on transcontinentals. Can’t sit still. The dead air silence suffocates until, at last, he touches tarmac. It’s a beautiful day in Fragrant Harbour, but Jared’s keen to get indoors. Skulk around stuffy hotels at secret addresses. The Mira in Tsim Sha Tsui.

He takes the lift to the tenth floor. Follows an inscrutable figure — tall, bowlegged, and tossing a Rubik’s cube — to room 1014. Jared shuts the door behind them. Clicks the lock.

The elusive _EZ_ silhouettes against the sheer-curtained window, watching the traffic below. He turns around.

Jared’s mouth goes dry. “There you are.”

Soft, relief.

“Here I am.”

~ ~ ~

Seven days in Hong Kong is all Jared needs to break his story.

Four days less to fall in love.

~ ~ ~

His name is Jensen Ross Ackles. Not _Echols_ with an E.

“More like _ankles_ with a C.”

Jared smiles. Scribbles in short-hand. “Then, what’s with _EZ_?”

The source shrugs. “It’s easy.”

Before that, Jensen goes through all his secret agent safeguards. Wets his whistle. “You got a phone on you, Clark Kent?”

Jared nudges at his horn rims, digs out his cell. “ _Daily Planet_ on speed-dial.” He watches, rapt, as Jensen puts it in the refrigerator.

“Blocks wireless signals,” he says, preemptively. “Got a laptop?”

“Yeah,” says Jared, pulls out his computer. “Gonna put it in the microwave?”

Jensen’s eyes spark emerald, the hint of a smile at his lips. He takes the laptop. Turns it over in his hands. “Air gapped?”

“Like you said.”

Jensen hums. _His approval_. Flips Jared’s stomach like he flips open the screen. Spins it around in his palm. “Type your password.”

Jared leans forward. Coughs. _Click-clack click-clack. Enter._

Jensen frowns. “1-2-3-4? Are you serious?”

“It’s temporary.”

“All the more reason…” Jensen shakes his head. He’s disappointed.

Jared shrinks. He’ll do better next time. “Right,” he says, his cheeks burning. Pulls up a chair. “So, you want to talk. Got something big for me.”

Jensen hums as he piles pillows at the door. Covers the cracks. Won’t let Jared slip through.

He walks back to where Jared sits. Digs in his pockets. “Here’s my Agency ID, my top secret clearance codes, my passport, my record of military service.”

Jared flips through them. Jensen Ackles is no script kiddie. He’s an elite. A screen-saver.

“You’re the real deal.”

“You doubted me?”

He blushes. “I — I don’t really know you.”

But he does. Through keystrokes and script poems.

Jensen blinks. Resets. “Uh, right.” He huffs a laugh. “Sorry, just nervous.”

“Me too.” Jared bites his lip. He likes the way his hacker’s cheeks tinge pink. He’s pretty that way. “Anyway, I’m here now. Whatever you’ve got, I’m all in.”

Jensen’s never heard such beautiful words.

~ ~ ~

Jensen tells Jared everything.

Spills government secrets, declassifies documents. Plugs his flash drives in.

Jared salivates. He’s overwhelmed. “The magnitude of it all…” The remote-taken photos, surveillance footage, pie charts and bar graphs and code words. “SIGINT?”

“Signals intelligence.”

“Ah ha,” breathes Jared, trying to take it all in. Can’t possibly.

There are backdoor entrances to shady service providers. Spreadsheets of passcodes and priorities. Kill lists and chains of command and no handcuffs. Secrets that haunt and terrify. The crushing banality of evil.

It’s a shock to the system.

Jared shakes his head to stop it from spinning. “I can’t make sense of it.” Screws his eyes shut. Zeros and ones scratch at the red insides. “All this jargon,” he continues, pushes his glasses up and scrubs at his eyes. “It’s like a different language.”

“Supposed to be,” says Jensen, grins. “Keeps nosy reporters from figuring things out.”

Jared leans forward. Puts his elbows on his knees. “I don’t know if I can do this.” Glances, wary, from the computer screen to his source. “Understand it, I mean.”

“Use me,” says Jensen. It’s gentle, an offering. He shrugs at the four-walls around him. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m all yours.”

Jared softens. Drops his guard. He’s a sucker for freckle-peppered noses and hasty devotion. He smiles, breathes. “You’re my Enigma key.”

Riddled with veracity.

~ ~ ~

The first night, Jared sleeps nine floors up. Room 1938. The year Kal-El was sent from Krypton. Champion of the oppressed.

But he doesn’t really sleep. He stays up writing reports. Pages and pages of earth-shattering scoops from self-sacrificing sources. Rebel yells and revolution.

Four in the morning and his eyes burn. He shuts his laptop screen, pitching the room dark. Lays back on his pillow and wonders what his source is doing. If he’s clacking keys on computers. If he’s asleep, curled up in tangled sheets. Or if he’s lying awake too, staring at the ceiling. Trying to laser-burn a tunnel nine floors deep.

Jared’s all heart aches and belly flutters. He sighs in the dark, shuts his eyes. Tries to imagine how Jensen is feeling — fed up, strung out, and shut in. The weight of knowing the full force of the Domestic Defence Agency could be on him at a moment’s notice. The thought of it hardens him.

Jensen Ackles is a cyberpunk superman. Here to save the world from turn-key tyranny.

~ ~ ~

The second day goes much like the first, both wired in and keyed up. They talk through charts and crypto-babble til their throats bleed. Jared steals glances at Jensen — his eyes darting across the screen, his fingers dancing on the keyboard, the bump on his nose and the line in his bottom lip. He’s careful not to linger too long. He can’t help himself.

“They’re gonna want to know about you,” he says, softly. “Who you are…”

Jensen squirms. “Nobody special.”

Jared doubts that. Pokes around his Chinese takeout box with chopsticks. He puts it down, leans towards the bed. He’s got to ask. Got to _know_. “Why are you doing this? Is it a legacy thing?”

Jensen scoffs. “ _Legacy_ , jeez.”

“If it’s not to make a name for yourself, then what? You don’t strike me as the _gone off the rails_ type.”

“I don’t care about fame. And I’m not crazy.”

Jared smiles. “That’s what celebrities and psychopaths say.”

Jensen laughs. Then, gets serious again. Fidgets. “I just want to do what’s right. What’s _good_.” He looks down. “Might make up for some of the bad.”

Jared blinks. He hears that sometimes, from greasy politicians. Nine times out of ten, it’s bullshit. But when he looks at the lines on Jensen’s face, the crinkles at his eyes, he knows it’s true.

“You’ll be eaten alive,” says Jared. “The media. They’ll come for you. Call you every name in the book. Traitor. Turncoat. Terrorist.”

Jensen swallows. He’s got something in his eye. Resolve. “Fuck ‘em. I’ve been called worse.”

Jared’s heart flutters. He has been too. More F-words than T-words, though. He takes the pencil from behind his ear. “I want to get to know you better. For the article, I mean…”

“Mm hm,” hums Jensen. He’s got mischief in his eyes. “Ask me.”

Jared clears his throat. “So, you, um… you got a family? Wife or girlfriend or something?” Casual.

Jensen chuckles. “No wives.” Grins and cocks his head. “No girlfriends.”

The pencil lead snaps.

They laugh at that, catch eyes. Jared scribbles little lines on his notepad.

“What about you?” asks Jensen, catching him off guard.

Jared’s face gets hot. Scratches at the back of his head. Got bugs in his brain. “Me?”

“Yeah, _you_ , Clark Kent,” says Jensen with a shit-eating grin. “You got a pretty little thing waiting on you at home? Makes you pot roast? _How’s your day, honey_ and all that?” He cocks his eyebrow. The flirt.

“It’s not the 1950s…” Jared smiles. He’s not one for white-picket fences. Likes Trojan horses more. “I mostly keep to myself.”

“Must get lonely,” Jensen coos. Shifts a little, ever-so-slightly spreads his legs.

Jared notices. “It’s — I don’t…” He blushes, pushes his glasses up. “Let’s get back to _your_ story, okay?”

Jensen bites his lip, looks him over. “But you’re so much more interesting…” There’s something soft and pliant about him. “Twenty questions. You ask one. I ask one. Deal?”

He falters. Churn, whirl, click. “Deal.”

There’s a hole in Jared’s story. And Jensen’s just gone phishing.

~ ~ ~

PGP is pretty good privacy.

Jared knows all about that. Keeps his personal life — his _habits_ — behind closet doors. He’s been told he’s tough to decipher. Won’t unlock his heart for just anyone.

They need an API key.

Jensen’s got a KYK-28 pin gun.

~ ~ ~

_Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep-beep._

Jared wakes up to his pesky watch alarm. He’s face down and drooling at the end of a hotel bed. A casualty of sleep-deprivation and late-night word processing. Lulled and let-lie.

“Morning,” says a low voice. _That_ one.

The bed squeaks when Jared pushes himself up. “Shit, sorry.” Wipes away spittle and sucks in breath. Straightens tie, unruffles shirt. “Must’ve fallen asleep.”

Sunrise-soaked Jensen is standing there with coffee. “Explains the snoring.”

Jared blushes. Fumbles for his glasses. His security blanket. “I… I didn’t mean to stay… it’s not very professional and —“

“Just take the cup,” says Jensen, smiley and soft.

He takes the cup. Blows on it. Sips at it. Smiles a shy _thanks_. Watches from the edge of the bed while Jensen shaves in the bathroom mirror. Door left open. Firewalls down.

They spend the day getting back to business as usual. But it’s hard to focus on FISA warrants and fibre optic cables when he feels Jensen’s eyes on him. Surveilling. Getting lost in translation.

Jared’s got random access memories — of sweet laughs and stolen looks and soft voices in the dark. Of _get-to-know-yous_ and _I’ve never told anyones_.

He files them away on his internal hard drive. It’s secure.

~ ~ ~

Jared’s getting too close to his source.

He’s got new leads. They’re off-the-record.

~ ~ ~

It’s evening when their systems crash.

There’s a pretty pink sunset glow behind the lacy drawn curtains. That time of day when the lights are still off and everything gets lost in shades of grey.

“They publish tomorrow,” says Jared. He shuts his laptop and stretches out along the foot of the bed, rubbing at his eyes. “The one about CYGNET surveillance. Front page of the _Washington Post_.”

Jensen’s eyes widen, sits down on the edge. Tucks his hip against Jared’s. “Damn, kid. You’re quick.”

“I’m caffeinated,” says Jared with a grin. Takes his glasses off and rubs at his eyes. Props himself up on his elbow. “How’re you holding up?”

Blink, shift, whrrr. “Not bad, all things considered. Eating less, I guess.”

Jared pauses, silent. Gives him time to rewire his functions.

A moment later, Jensen softens. Comes online. “It’s liberating. Not knowing what’s going to happen to me. Today, tomorrow, the next hour… there are no guarantees. You can’t think. You can only make decisions.”

Living on borrowed time makes you impulsive. There’s no space to mull things over in cramped queen suites. No time to waste either.

“There’s something I didn’t ask last night.”

Jensen’s eyes soften. “Tell me.”

Jared swallows. Stares up at his source with reverent wonder. “Why’d you pick me?”

Green eyes blink. Eyelashes petal soft. “Who says I did?”

Jared reaches out, fingers at his sleeve. “You _know_ things. About me…”

Jensen bites his lip. He sees it in Jared’s eyes just the same as he’d watched keystrokes in search engines — the fear, the anger, the insecure queries.

Jared’s firewalls have cracks. Bad, bad cases of bit rot. Parse around the edges and he’ll crumble.

“Shhh,” says Jensen, leaning down. Presses a hand to his chest, gently pushing him flat. Gets closer. “No more questions.”

Jared’s breath hitches. Fear and panic and _want_ spread through him like a virus. He trembles under the gentle press of Jensen’s hand. Can’t move.

Handcuffed and bootstrapped.

The impossible pink of Jensen’s lips move closer. He can feel his breath. Can almost taste it. Taste _him_. There are sparks in the air and heartbeats in his ears as he leans in. Impossibly close.

_Almost._

Jared’s breath hitches. “You can fuck me if you want.”

Jensen exhales, sweet and shuddery. “I want. Oh, God, I want…”

Their mouths collide with silky relief. With sacrifice and soul-sucking thirst. Quenched at long last.

A kiss to kill the free world. No one left but them.

~ ~ ~

_Yes, yes, just like that._

Little whispers, husky moans. Hair pulls and love taps.

_Doin’ good, sweetheart. So good for me._

Wet dicks and whimpers.

_Please, please, please._

Building and building. Blood-rushing, stutter-fucking.

_I’m — I’m gonna… ohh ohhh._

Well-trained whistleblower.

Get your hands on him and he’ll leak all over.

~ ~ ~

“Jared, wake up.”

Prickle, inhale. Jared feels the sandman in his eyes. He shifts, stretches.

Bruised and tender, sore all over.

“Mmm,” he hums, sleepy. Quietly savours the ache. It means he was marked, taken, _owned_. Renegade sin in hotel hideaways.

Jensen pets his hair, presses sweetly at his scalp. “Come on, wonder boy,” he nudges. “Gotta show you something.”

At last, Jared stirs. Winces as he turns over. He could stay under Jensen’s thumb forever, but the rising sun over the Hong Kong skyline brings him back to the end of the world. He props himself up on the pillows next to Jensen. Can still smell the sex on him. The salt-spilled love.

“Take a look at this.” Jensen turns his laptop. It’s today’s edition of the _Washington Post_.

 _There it is._ Black, white, and read all over. The one that will change the world.

_DDA COLLECTING PHONE RECORDS OF MILLIONS OF VODAFONE CUSTOMERS DAILY_

Jensen sees it in his eyes — the adrenaline, the raging rush of news breaking. He clicks on the TV. Finds the _CNN_ feed.

 _There it is again_. Flickering, pundit analysis.

_BREAKING NEWS: U.S. GOVERNMENT SPYING ON AMERICANS_

They look at each other. Heart eyes and hyperlinks.

Little lines of binary code.

Forever imprinting.

~ ~ ~

They come for him that evening. The men with guns and suits. Secret service. Jared can’t stop them. When he tries, he gets a gun on him, half-naked and hard-fucked.

“Don’t be a hero, Jared,” says Jensen, cuffed and bound in boxer shorts. “You always knew Superman dies in the end.”

Jared trembles, watching helpless as they rough handle him. Nothing like soft squeezes or fingertip grazes.

“ _Jen_ —“ he cries as they pull him away.

They catch eyes. Read each others minds. The secret code.

_Promise you’ll love me tomorrow._

_I promise._

_Promise you’ll love me forever._

_For always._

He’s gone.

~ ~ ~

Six months into the future. Fifteen treason charges under the Espionage Act. Two secret FISA court proceedings. One sentence.

It’s doomsday.

Jared’s fingers hover over the mouse button. The cursor flitters, shaky, on a new YouTube link.

_EXECUTION VIDEO - Jensen Eckles, American Traitor_

He stares at the “E” with tears in his eyes. Can’t watch. Can’t breathe.

There are people in the streets. Marching and chanting Jensen’s name.

~ ~ ~

Jared Padalecki’s got a Pulitzer Prize for Public Service. He’s been personally reprimanded by the President of the United States. Been detained at airports nine times. He’s on the watch list. Got a book coming out.

People want to know what happened in room 1014 — the timeline of revelations, minute by minute. He writes every word he can. How Jensen taught him all about cryptology and keystroke logging and cyberattacks.

The other things Jensen taught Jared — things in dark rooms that smell of salt and honey; nudges and nestles and near-death euphorias — he leaves off the page. Keeps them encrypted, tucked close to his heart.

~ ~ ~

Every year, on the fourth of June, Jared returns to Tsim Sha Tsui.

Books room 1014 at The Mira and draws the sheer curtains. Puts his phone in the refrigerator. Breathes in. Breathes out. He closes his eyes and pictures his hallowed hacker. Clutches the Rubik’s cube to his chest.

He’s disappeared, yes. But, for Jared, Jensen is easy to trace.

His fingerprints are all over him.

\- - - - - - END PGP MESSAGE - - - - -

01001001001000000110110001101111011101100110010100100000011110010110111101110101


End file.
